


Unaware

by Naughty_Yorick



Series: The Alphabet Game [22]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, Requited Love, Sharing Body Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27405982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Jaskier wants to pretend he’s fine - to turn down the terribly tempting offer. But that space looks so warm, so inviting - and there are far worse places to be in this world than in Geralt’s arms, after all.Geralt is in love with Jaskier. And Jaskier, of course, is in love with Geralt.  What a shame, then, that they can't tell each other. Because all the little moments - soft touches, shared evenings - are so easily attributed to simple friendship. Right?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Alphabet Game [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983026
Comments: 23
Kudos: 301





	Unaware

**Author's Note:**

> I challenged myself to write a fic for every letter of the alphabet. I took each letter, plugged it into a random word generator and wrote a fic based on whichever word it gave me. This letter is "U", and the word is "unaware"! See more of my Alphabet Challenge on my tumblr, [here!](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/post/632799468062916608/alphabet-game-master-post)

Jaskier shivers, pulling the thin blanket around himself tighter as he feels dry leaves crunch beneath him. It’s mid autumn, and the first truly cold night of the year. He’s been spoiled by a long, warm summer - where nights spent beneath the stars are sometimes preferable to sleeping in a stuffy inn. He’s forgotten, like he does every year, how cold it gets.

Across the camp, Geralt seems to be unfazed by the cold, apparently asleep. It’s something about his Witcher mutagens, something about his blood. He always runs hot. Jaskier twists in the blanket again, squeezing his eyes shut, willing his teeth to stop chattering so he can finally get some sleep.

“Jaskier.”

He opens his eyes, and Geralt is looking at him over the fire. He lifts his arm, opening a space between his body, the blanket, and the floor. “Come here,” he says. “You’re freezing.”

Jaskier wants to pretend he’s fine - to turn down the terribly tempting offer. But that space looks so warm, so _inviting_ \- and there are far worse places to be in this world than in Geralt’s arms, after all. He wants to refuse, but he doesn’t. In silence, he grabs his blanket and bedroll and drags them across to where Geralt is lying.

They both remain quiet as Jaskier spreads his roll next to Geralt’s, then lowers himself down next to him. Geralt hooks an arm around him, and - _ah_ \- he _is_ warm, wonderfully so. Jaskier shuffles down beside him, suddenly lost in the smell of sweat and leather and just the smallest hint of horse.

These little moments of intimacy are becoming more regular, and with each one Jaskier can feel himself slipping further into infatuation. It’s a slippery slope, he knows, from infatuation to something a lot more dangerous - but he can’t resist, not when Geralt so freely offers himself to him like this.

Jaskier is _hungry_ for it - for little touches, little shared moments, nights in shared beds. Guilt and elation and lust and fear all mingle together within him, but he pushes them down, allows himself these moments to enjoy it for what it is - a gentle touch that’s _given_ , not asked for.

This isn’t, of course, an altruistic act on Geralt’s part. He’s unaware how much the small gesture means to Jaskier. With his blasted heightened senses Jaskier’s chattering teeth must sound like a full marching band, making sleep impossible. And, well, if the trade off for a good night’s sleep is having to share a bedroll with Jaskier for an evening, that’s probably something Geralt is able to put up with.

Geralt doesn’t offer his bedroll and his body to Jaskier for the reasons Jaskier would like him too. He’s learnt to accept this - accepted it an age ago. It doesn’t make the knowledge sting any less, though.

Jaskier can already feel himself growing sleepy as he basks in the softness of being wrapped in Geralt’s arms. He thanks all the gods and then some that Geralt can’t read his mind, and allows himself to indulge in daydreams before finally drifting to sleep.

~

Geralt heaves Jaskier up the staircase, keeping one arm wrapped around the bard’s waist and another gripped to the wooden handrail to counterbalance Jaskier’s continual attempts to send them both tumbling back down the stairs.

Jaskier is drunk. He is _extremely_ drunk. This is, Geralt thinks, fair: he’s spent the last five hours celebrating a rather decisive win at this year’s Oxenfurt Bardic Competition and is dizzy with pleasure. Pleasure and, by this stage of the evening, quite a few glasses of wine.

The winning song - penned on the road at Geralt’s side - was a hit amongst the judges and the audience alike. Geralt is the first to admit that he doesn’t know very much about art, but even he found his foot tapping along to the beat. He suspects it’s because he’s already heard the song so many times: it feels familiar to him while it’s novel to the rest of the listeners. 

The lyrics are more of Jaskier’s usual favourite subject: unrequited love. There’s a story woven into them about a monster - or perhaps it was a man, Geralt wasn’t too sure - and a curse, a kiss - it’s all an elaborate metaphor spun from one of Geralt’s hunts, but it works, somehow, even if he doesn’t necessarily know what point Jaskier is making with it. 

Jaskier slumps against him, giggling as they ascend the final stairs. They head towards Jaskier’s room, catching curious glances from students and alumni as they go.

Finally, Geralt manages to get Jaskier into his room, sitting him as gently as he can on the edge of the wide bed. Jaskier grins up at him, swaying slightly, then pats the space beside him.

Geralt does as he’s told - he doesn’t fancy leaving Jaskier alone in this state regardless, and the bard grins even wider then, with a sigh, lets himself slump against him, his head resting on Geralt’s shoulder. He smells of wine, and beer, and someone else’s perfume - but beneath all of that, the warm, homey smell of Jaskier, just _Jaskier_. The casual touch, freely given, sends a little jolt through Geralt’s chest. 

Jaskier’s just drunk, he reminds himself. He’s just drunk, and _you’re_ just here. You could be _anyone_. Jaskier sighs, breaking Geralt out of his thoughts.

“I should very much like to kiss you,” he says. 

Geralt stiffens, then looks down at him. Jaskier is staring back with those big, blue eyes. 

“You’re drunk,” says Geralt, furiously trying to control the blood rushing to his face.

“Hmm,” Jaskier agrees, “I am. _And_ I should very much like to kiss you. I can be both.”

Jaskier’s gaze is a little muddled, his face flushed with drink. He’s still grinning, although with less certainty than before. Geralt wonders who this declaration is _really_ for - who it is Jaskier wishes was sat on the bed beside him. It’s not him, of course: it couldn’t be him. Jaskier, with all his charm, all his admirers, all his _everything_ , could never reserve a look like that for Geralt.

“Sleep, Jaskier,” he says, “and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

Geralt hopes Jaskier doesn’t remember this conversation in the morning. “Promise” 

Together, they remove Jaskier’s boots and doublet and manoeuvre him into the bed. He wriggles down beneath the sheets sleepily. Geralt turns to leave, when Jaskier calls out.

“Stay,” he says, sitting up, “please stay.”

Geralt looks towards him. He looks at the wide bed, with ample room for the both of them, and Jaskier’s pleading eyes. He shrugs his own uncomfortable doublet from his shoulders and kicks off his boots as Jaskier watches with a pleased little smile.

“Move over, then,” he says, as he slots himself beside him under the coverlet.

Jaskier moves, but not far - he’s still close enough that they’re touching when Geralt is settled on the mattress. Jaskier is staring at him again, his head resting on his shoulder once more. Lying down like this, the touch is almost unbearably intimate.

“Geralt…” he begins, and Geralt recognises that expression.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pouts, but says nothing - merely burying himself into the crook of Geralt’s neck with a soft little hum. It’s not long before he’s asleep, snoring in that haphazard, drunken way. It’s only when Geralt is sure he’s drifted away that he wraps an arm around his bard, pulling him even closer.

Even with Jaskier’s snoring, Geralt is soon himself asleep.


End file.
